


If I Had the Choice Between Hearing Either Noise

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AND I'M SOFT, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Karaoke, M/M, Post-Canon, Songfic, also Crowley is a slutty slutty snek, and dumb, and they love each other, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: But I've had no love like your love, ooh, from nobodyI'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saintI wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehaveBut I want you to know that I've had no love like your loveCrowley returns from a "business" trip; Aziraphale takes them to karaoke.





	If I Had the Choice Between Hearing Either Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another crack!songfic, this time featuring fluff and Crowley singing! 
> 
> The more I listen to this song, the more I feel it applies to the Ineffable Husbands. 
> 
> Nobody, by Hozier.

It had not, contrary to popular belief, been Crowley who suggested they go to a karaoke bar. It had been Aziraphale. 

Of course, Aziraphale really just wanted to watch. Crowley was rarely satisfied with just watching. 

Crowley had also just come home from a long business trip, so he was still practically high off being with his husband again. Aziraphale would find the outpouring of emotion difficult to handle if he weren’t just as excited to have Crowley home again. 

He didn’t like when the demon was out too long, work or not. 

Especially when the most recent trip had left his demon love with a new taste for “India Pale Ale” beers. 

“I’m gonna get another,” Crowley said as he stood, “you want one?”

“Quite alright, dear, I’ll stick with my whiskey.” 

Crowley shrugged. “Suit yourself!” 

He ambled over to the bar, leaning on it and being strangely patient for a demon. Aziraphale smiled indulgently. Crowley seemed to have some sort of conversation with the bartender, laughing, glancing over his shoulder at Aziraphale, and then scribbling something on a piece of paper. He spoke with the young woman again— she tilted her head, thinking, then said something and tapped the paper. “Ah!” Aziraphale heard, and Crowley was scribbling again. 

“What was all that about?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley sat back down next to him. 

Crowley grinned. “I’m gonna do some karaoke.” He scooted his beer towards the angel. 

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose and pushed the beer back at Crowley. “Really? What song?”

Crowley shrugged and took a sip, set the beer down lazily. “Mmmm. New Hozier song. New? Well. New to me.” 

Aziraphale blinked. Hozier? “Is that the Irish man?”

Crowley nodded. “The one who stole my half-up look!” 

“Oh, sweetheart, I rather think you stole his,” Aziraphale teased, bumping shoulders. Crowley snorted and covered the angel’s hand with his. “Now where did you hear it?”

“Los Angeles,” Crowley practically hissed. 

Aziraphale smiled again. City of Angels. 

“Made me think of you.” 

The angel nearly inhaled his whiskey. He put it back down as his eyes darted to the side, catching the _ineffably_ fond look on his demon’s face. He cleared his throat to say something, but they were interrupted by the host of tonight’s karaoke. 

“Alright alright alright! I know there’s been a break, but we’re back on!” 

“That’s my cue,” Crowley said, pressing a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s jaw, “come watch.”

Aziraphale could not believe he was about to watch Crowley sing. 

Well, he had watched Crowley sing before, in quiet moments in his Soho bookshop, or in a thunderstorm while the Bentley blasted Queen. But the demon had never sung in front of anyone who wasn’t him.

And now, with a “wazzup!” and a swing of his hips, Crowley was on stage. 

Aziraphale was already in awe. And then Crowley leaned into the mic, gripping the stand loosely, and practically growled, “this one’s for you, gorgeous.” 

Aziraphale swooned. 

The demon was always moving, though usually in smaller ways— here, as soon as the _buh-tikka-tikka-tap buddup-tikka-tikka-tap-tap_ started, Crowley’s hips were swaying slowly over the macrobeats. Aziraphale was _enchanted._

“You know when it’s twelve o’clock in Soho, baby, it’s gin o’clock where I wake up I don’t know.” 

Crowley leaned back on “Soho, baby,” and smirked wickedly for the rest of the phrase. Aziraphale sighed, picking up his glass and Crowley’s, and moved closer. 

“And I think about you though, everywhere I go.” 

Aziraphale spared him a glance, ignoring the pout. (For the most part. He did smile.) 

“And I’ve done everythin’ and I’ve been everywhere, you know.” 

He sure had, Aziraphale mused. Sometimes the angel got to be on the benefitting side of that. He blushed at the thought, not missing Crowley’s tiny laugh. 

“I’ve been fed gold—“ a pause for his hips to jut to the sides in time with the guitar— “by sweet fools in Abu Dhabi.” 

Aziraphale smiled at the bartender as he sat on a stool at the bar, turning it to face the stage. 

“And I’ve danced real slow…” the slow grind of his hips on the mic stand was obscene, and several women in the bar hooted, and Aziraphale felt suddenly _very_ possessive. “…with Rockettes on dodgy molly.” 

The demon was grinning wickedly, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale. Until his head snapped to look straight into his soul— 

“But I’ve had no! Love! Like! Your love!” 

The angel was surprised the demon could sing that high. And he stayed in that register— “Ooh, from nobody!” 

Aziraphale found his mouth ever so slightly open, the sight of his demon’s head tilted back, knees bent, both hands gripping the stand, practically wrecking him. 

When had Crowley gotten good at singing? 

“I’d be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint— I wouldn’t fall for someone I thought couldn’t misbehave.” Aziraphale swallowed thickly. The look Crowley was giving him was somehow both predatory and incredibly fond. 

“But I want you to know that I’ve had no love like your love.” 

It was strangely vulnerable, for how public they were, the look that Crowley was giving him. Aziraphale was frozen by it, hoping the demon could feel his appreciation. 

“That’s a lucky sonofabitch to bag that one,” the bartender said appreciatively. 

Aziraphale turned. “You’re American?”

She shrugged with a grin. “Whoops.”

“Honey when you warmed the bed on Wednesday, ah, it’s suicide on Tuesday back in LA.” Aziraphale turned back to the stage in time to see Crowley actually dragging both himself and the mic across the stage towards him. Aziraphale straightened slightly, eyes widening in surprise. 

“If I had the choice,” an over-exaggerated hip movement, “between hearing either noise,” Oh Lord he was close enough he was actually off the stage, “The excitement of a thousand or the—“ 

His body pressed up against Aziraphale’s, hips between the angel’s knees (when had his legs fallen open?) as the music dropped out and his voice lowered. His fingers skated over Aziraphale’s jaw as he crooned, “soothing of your voice—“

And then, very quickly, Crowley was no longer between Aziraphale’s legs. He’d crossed a decent number of feet in two words. “At first chance,” he sang, punctuating “chance” with a headbang and a one-footed backwards jump, “I’d take the bed warmed by the body!” 

Now, Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley feeling up and down his own body on stage was necessary. The women were back to hooting again. Crowley ended the movement with both arms straight up, hands flicked towards the ceiling. 

On the other hand, it was a very nice sight. His husband had a very nice body. 

“I once warmed my hands,” he grinned, bringing his hands back down and miming warming them over fire as his eyes sparkled and he practically snickered, “over a burnin’ Maserati.”

Aziraphale gasped. He wouldn’t! He loved those cars too much. 

Crowley let out a “woo!” 

Of course, Maseratis were no Bentley. 

“Still I’ve had no! Love! Like! Your Love! From Nobody!” There was that bended knee, head tilted back, loud ecstasy again. Aziraphale took a generous sip and swallowed. 

Crowley’s eyes turned tender again, and he started to walk languidly— and to the beat— back towards Aziraphale. The hooting women finally caught on, and their hooting got confusingly louder. “I’d be appalled if I ever saw you try to be a saint, I couldn’t fall for someone I thought couldn’t misbehave.”

Well, to be fair, neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were perfect at their “job.” 

“But I want you to know that I’ve had no love like your love.” 

There was something painfully true about the way he sang that, and it was only punctuated by his presence between Aziraphale’s legs. This time, he was close enough that his elbow lifted to Aziraphale’s shoulder, propping itself up as he held the mic loosely. 

His other hand came up to trace over Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale was sure he was exuding sappy, admiring love, but he didn’t care. 

“And on the other side, why should we deny the truth? We could have less to worry ‘bout, honey, I won’t lie to you.” 

It was bittersweet, hearing it. Yes, it was true. But had that ever really stopped them? Not since the world hadn’t ended. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer, craning his neck back to look up at his husband. 

“But everything I do, I’ve had no love like your love.” 

Crowley’s hand had slipped to cup the angel’s neck, thumb beneath his chin thanks to the demon’s inordinately long digits. 

With a gently wicked smile, Crowley leaned down and placed a kiss on Aziraphale’s lips. The song played out as Aziraphale held him close, one hand skating up to press between Crowley’s shoulder blades, the other sliding lower to rest behind his thigh. Crowley grinned into the kiss before biting at Aziraphale’s lip— his arm slid around Aziraphale’s shoulders while his other hand remained on the angel’s neck. 

Aziraphale dimly registered those _still hooting women_ and the host saying “We, uh, will need the microphone back?” 

As long as Crowley was singing, Aziraphale thought he was going to really enjoy karaoke.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is a slutty slutty snek who loves his husband very much, and we are all the hooting women


End file.
